and from a long distance I manage to
hear her, and to reply, "Thank you. I
will. Thank you so much."
P lease gather and take away your hus-
band's belongings bejòre you leave.
I t is my task-my first task as a
widow-to clear the hospital room of
my husband's things.
The wristwatch on the table beside
my husband's bed, an Aqua Qgartz dig-
ital watch of no special distinction,
probably purchased at the Pennington
drug store, which pronounces the time
1:21 A.M.-and, as I stare at it, turns to
1:22 A.M.-has no identity and no
significance except that it is Ray's wrist-
watch. Because it is his, I will take it with
me. That is my responsibility.
In this very early stage of widow-
hood-you might almost call it "pre-
widowhood," for the widow hasn't yet
"got it," what it will be like to inhabit
this free-fall world from which the
meaning has been drained-the widow
takes comfort in such small tasks, the
rituals of the death protocol, through
which more experienced others will
guide her, as one might guide a doomed
animal out of a pen and into a chute by
the use of a ten-foot pole.
"Mrs. Smith? Do you have someone
t all
"
o c .
' 'Y "
es.
"Would you like any assistance in
calling?"
" N "
o.
These seem to be correct answers. It
is not a correct answer to reply, "But I
don't want to call anyone. I want to go
home now, and die."
These thoughts rush through my
head and I make no effort to deflect
them, still less to examine them. It is
strange to be assailed by rushing thoughts
when I am moving and speaking so
slowly-like one who has been hit over
the head with a sledgehammer.
Already the time on Ray's watch is
1:24 AM.
In the medicine cabinet in the small
windowless bathroom, my fingers close
numbly on a toothbrush, a twisted
tube of toothpaste, mouthwash, a
man's roll-on deodorant-clear-glide
invisible-solid powder-soft scentless anti-
dr
C
J
ß
7f
"Try rolling on the ground! Roll around on the ground!"
perspirant deodorant for men-and shav-
ing cream, in a small aerosol container.
I am moving as if undersea, gather-
ing my husband's belongings to take
home.
Someone must have instructed me to
perform this task. I would not have
thoughtofitmyselE The word "belong-
ings" is not my word. It is a curious word
that sticks to me like a burr.
"Home," too, is a curious word.
One of the reasons I am moving
so slowly-perhaps it has nothing to
do with being struck on the head by
a sledgehammer-is that, with these
belongings, I have nowhere to go ex-
cept home. This home-without my
husband-is not possible for me to
consider.
The tile floor seems to be shifting be-
neath my feet. I dressed in a hurry before
leaving the house. I am not even sure
what shoes I am wearing-my vision is
blurred. Could be I have on two left
shoes-or have switched my right and
left. I recall that, in the history of civili-
zation, the designation of right and left
shoes is relatively recent. Not so very
long ago, people counted themselves for-
tunate just to have shoes to wear. This is
the sort of random and yet intriguing in-
formation that Ray used to tell me or
read out to me from a magazine. Did you
know this? Not so very long ago. . .
This past week, I've become aston-
ishingly clumsy. I should have brought
a bag into the bathroom to hold Ray's
things, but I didn't. Awkwardly, I am
gathering them in my hands, my arms.
One of the objects slips and falls-the
shaving cream, which clatters loudly on
the floor. As I stoop to retrieve it, blood
rushes into my head and there is a tear-
ing sensation in my chest. Shaving
cream! In this terrible place!
This would be a time to cry. Ray's
shaving cream in his widow's sweaty
hand.
The vanity of shaving cream, mouth-
wash, powder-soft scentless deodorant for
men.
The vanity of our love for each other,
of our marriage.
The vanity of our lives. The vanity of
believing that somehow we owned our
lives.
Lines from a Scottish ballad-"The
Golden Vanity"-come into my mind.
My brain is unnervingly porous. I